The Touchstones of Dreams

Last night, I attended my retirement party while I was sound asleep. Mind you, I walked away from my job over five years ago, so it was lovely to see those old workmates again in a dream. They were all so vivid, their laughter warming, their stories familiar. I was smiling when I woke, awash with memories. In several of my novels, I mention the Celtic notion of "thin places" where life and death draw so close to one another that the boundary blurs. The veil is lifted and there’s a connection, an uncanny awareness. Dreams are thin places.
 
DCI Tremaine is plagued with dreams of second sight. The curse makes him memorable and gives me a place be rather poetic. Those unique scenes often come to me just as I am waking, returning from one of those thin places. In my latest novel, The Nighthawk’s Nemesis…
 
Tremaine dreamt of this location last night. His vision revealed monks crossing the field by their abbey ruin; holy men wearing long, white tunics and inky scapulars. Their cowls suddenly shifted, unfolding into the wings of magpies as the monks transformed into murderous corvids – messengers of the dead. They circled the meadow, seeking prey. He woke not knowing they already found it here. Second sight – bizarre visions of future events – whispered to him when he slept yet revealed very little.
 
My dreams don’t reveal fresh insight either. They often summon the ghosts of those who have gone before me. Parents. Sisters. Friends. I love seeing them again. Feel warm. Safe. Happy. I wake with a profound sense of gratitude. Not because I’m still alive, but because I knew them, shared history with them, grew tall because of them.
 
Crossing those thin places enriches me. Isn’t that what dreams are for?